


The Roads We Walk Together

by TheTimeMachineJellyfish



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is a Reaper, Crowley is a Medium, Crowley talks to ghosts, Flashbacks, Historical Setting - Celtic Britons (around the time of the Roman Empire), M/M, Memory Loss, Modern Setting - London, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Past Lives, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24521761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimeMachineJellyfish/pseuds/TheTimeMachineJellyfish
Summary: Aziraphale is a reaper, tasked with collecting souls of the residents in Soho. Crowley is a medium plagued by the demands of London's most annoying ghosts. Drawn together by fate (and the meddling of one antique store owner), Aziraphale and Crowley realize they've met somewhere before, a long time ago.A Ghosts/Supernatural AU for the Good AUmens event.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 71
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Bowtie

**Author's Note:**

> If you have read any of my other WIPs, please rest assured I have not forgotten them! This story is already fully drafted, and I'm hoping to post once a week until it's finished. I recently defended my thesis, so I've finally got free time to write - and there's nothing I love writing more than these ineffable husbands. <3 Thank you for giving this story a shot!

_Crowley._

The house was round, constructed from uneven stones and clay. Wind whistled through the gaps in the thatched roof, the only light a fire burning in the middle of the room. Through a hazy film of smoke, which made his eyes water and his face itch, Crowley noticed a wooden stool, three terracotta pots, and an unfinished mural on the wall – a geometric design in red and black tiles. It reminded him of interlocking hourglasses.

“I know why you’ve come.” Crowley turned around. A woman was kneeling on the dirt floor.

 _Crowley_.

“What?” He canted his head to the side, rounding the fire pit. He couldn’t see her anymore.

“He already knows.”

**_CROWLEY._ **

* * *

In Mayfair, a forty-year-old medium woke up to an angry ghost standing over his bed. They were tall and dressed in black, short red hair slicked back and semi-translucent skin. Crowley jerked out of a dead (no pun intended) sleep, gasping for breath, and shoved the ghost away, hand sliding through their vest. A shudder worked its way down his spine and Crowley twisted out from under silk sheets, dropping his feet on the ground.

“Feeling guilty?”

“Shut up, Dagon.” Crowley rubbed one hand over his face, curling his toes against cold concrete. The dream was already starting to slip away but he could feel the smoke in his chest. “I told you to stay out of my flat.”

“I died here.”

“Not in _this flat_.” Crowley dropped his hands, glaring up at the ghost. He’d never met Dagon while they were alive - he prided himself on never talking to his neighbors – but he’d since learned they were a paper pusher in a prosecutor’s office. For the past three days, they’d been showing up at all hours of the night. Crowley had done his fair share of waking up with strangers, but not discorporated ones who kept tropical fish.

Dagon shifted their weight from one foot to the other. “I told you what I want.”

Crowley shook off the remnants of the dream and reached for his glasses, “Mmmyeah,” he drawled, getting to his feet and ambling over to the bathroom, each step dogged by the ghost who was getting worked up again, their anger prickling on his skin.

“You said you’d take care of it.”

“Sure did,” Crowley flipped on the light and reached for his toothbrush, running the bristled head under the water and grimacing at his own reflection, “But since I’m the one with the pulse, _I_ get to dictate the schedule. I still have a life.”

Dagon’s watery eyes flashed, and they ground out two words between their teeth, “For now.”

“That a threat?” Crowley squirted toothpaste onto his brush, glancing up at the mirror. “Who helps you if I die, hm?” Rhetorical question, “Nobody, that’s who. Think smarter, not harder.” He winked at the ghost and, feeling smug, happened to glance down at his toothbrush. “Fuck!” The toothpaste had transformed into maggots, wriggling in between the bristles, and Crowley dropped it in the sink with a grunt of disgust.

Dagon smirked. 

Crowley pivoted away from the sink to face the ghost, whose pointed face was still contorted into a smile when the medium hissed, “That. Was. A. Sonicare.” The toothbrush cost him a hundred quid. And now, even if he swapped the head out, he would always think of it covered in maggots!

“Keep your word, Crowley,” Dagon replied, unfazed by the medium’s indignation, “Do it today.”

“Fine!” He didn’t want to wake up to roaches in the fridge, or flies in the Bentley, and it was always trickier when they lived in the same building, “Can I take a piss first? Do you mind?” Crowley flicked one hand at the ghost, gesturing for them to get out of the bathroom. Dagon grumbled a colorful insult under their breath and vanished. The medium hesitated, then shouted after them, “TAKE THE MAGGOTS WITH YOU!”

And that was how he ended up with a twenty-gallon tank and four betta fish.

Crowley – despite being an unreliable sort - _was_ planning to break into the flat. The police had left the fish there for two days, and he wasn’t a monster. Dagon’s trick with the maggots made him late for work, but he picked up the tank. A week later, satisfied in the knowledge that Crowley would take care of their fish, Dagon moved on. Crowley didn’t know what was on the other side, but he was glad to be done with them.

Now he needed a new place to live.

* * *

Crowley didn’t sit in on the séances. Tracy’s incense gave him a headache. But he trolled graveyards every other day looking for suckers – grieving families and friends - and sent them to her. He didn’t have to worry about the ghosts: he couldn’t get through one reddit thread on a park bench without being interrupted. They were drawn to him. He got enough information to make the séance convincing, then split the profits with Tracy.

But to afford a flat in Mayfair, he had to get a second source of income.

Crowley worked in advertising. It was a soul-sucking job with great pay, and the best part was that the building was new. Nobody had died there – no freak fires, no suicides, no murders. Crowley took a long lunch in Soho and spent most of it antagonizing Tarantino fans on Twitter. Glancing up as the waiter dropped off his check, Crowley pretended not to notice the dirty man in a trenchcoat glaring at him through the window. That was what the glasses were for. Not making eye contact with ghosts went a long way towards getting them to bugger off. The dead were singularly focused, but it drained energy to hold human form – let alone a conversation. Pissing them off was the best way to break their concentration: by ignoring them, mansplaining them (especially about being dead), forcing them to sit through powerpoint presentations, all tried and true methods.

Crowley stood up and worked his fingers into his back pocket to retrieve his airpods, shoved them in his ears, and left the restaurant. Hastur followed him for about half a block, talking _at_ him. Then he started to yell.

“Oi!” Hastur had been haunting Crowley for months, hanging around west London where he set a fire that killed three people in 2008. He also managed to set himself on fire by accident. "I know you can hear me, you flash bastard!”

- _IF I COULD MAKE THE WORLD AS PURE AND STRANGE AS WHAT I SEE-  
_

Hastur popped in front of him, lurching forward, sallow face streaked in soot. Crowley’s jaw ticked in irritation but after forty years, he didn’t give them the satisfaction of flinching. Hastur was an idiot. There was nothing good waiting for him on the other side; he might as well stay in London. Crowley stepped through the ghost and crossed the street, waving a hand at an irate lorry driver. Hastur reappeared next to the Bentley, cursing.

Crowley pulled out his airpods, preparing for the inevitable confrontation with occult forces standing between him and his car. Suddenly, Hastur’s eyes fixed on something over the medium’s shoulder, strangling the words in his throat to a guttural squawk. Crowley tilted his head to the side, following the dead man’s gaze, but all he saw was a middle-aged blond in a bowtie standing outside a bookshop. 

“Looking for a date?” Crowley was baffled by the reaction, giving Bowtie an appraising look, “He is out of your league.” On account of Bowtie being alive and Hastur being a dead arsonist and a creep. Crowley raised a brow. The ghost’s eyes bulged, nostrils flaring, and he disappeared. 

_Well. That was a thing._

Crowley decided to follow Bowtie around the corner, but he hadn’t figured out what to say to him. _You scare ghosts often? Want to scare them together? I’ve got a Bentley and an all access pass to the City of London Cemetery…_ _no, it’s not really a pass, it’s a bolt cutter… I don’t dig up graves, I don’t have the back for it anymore…_ or something. Bowtie wandered into a shop and Crowley misstepped, walking past it before he realized what he’d done. He backtracked, eyeing the faded name of the shop. _Nice and Accurate Antiques._ Bah. He hated antiques.

But he wanted to talk to Bowtie, so he braced himself for the worst and stepped inside. It took Crowley a few seconds to adjust to the lighting, and the fact that the shop was blessedly bereft of ghosts. It was spacious and clean. Shelves and glass curio cabinets lined the walls, with vases, lamps, cutlery, artwork, photographs, music boxes, ornaments, and a truly horrifying number of porcelain dolls.

Bowtie was standing over a collection of old books – _right, because there aren’t enough of those in a bookshop?_ – and Crowley wandered over to the register, bending down to eye a display of jewelry under the glass. Clunky necklaces, charm bracelets, crucifixes, ugly broaches, and rings.

“Would you like to take a closer look?” Crowley stiffened at the proximity of the voice - the accent was different, it sounded American - jerking back to see a young woman smiling at him from across the counter. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”

“You didn’t,” Crowley retorted, the flash of indignation smoothing out, “I don’t get spooked.”

She smiled wider, pushing her round glasses up on her nose, and he took a moment to appreciate the aesthetic. She wore a high-collared blouse with light blue lace along the neck and wrists, a riff on Victorian style, with long, dark hair pinned out of her eyes. Without another word, she unlocked the glass case and drew out the tray of rings, setting them down on the counter. A beat later, an instrumental version of 'Monster Mash' wafted through the air, and Antique Girl glanced towards the back of the shop, then back at him.

“Why don’t you see if anything speaks to you?” she suggested, “I’ll be back to check on you in a minute.”

Crowley watched her walk away. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to steal something?”

“Nope,” she called over her shoulder, dark skirts swishing. Her suede boots didn’t click on the concrete.

Turning back to the jewelry tray, Crowley gave it a dismissive once over before the ring caught his eye. It was a signet ring, silver, with a pair of angel wings carved into the metal. There was meticulous attention to detail in the shaping of the feathers. Crowley reached for it – and so did Bowtie. Clean, manicured fingers nearly brushed his own, before twitching away. Crowley picked up the ring and looked at him. He had a soft face, pretty, lips parted in surprise. He was staring at Crowley, with a startled expression and glassy blue eyes.

“Are you… crying?” Crowley asked. Bowtie gasped wordlessly and looked down, running his finger under the wrong eye. Crowley watched the renegade teardrop slide off his chin, glancing between the counter and the blond, “Is this about the ring? Do you want it?”

Bowtie blinked at him, nodded.

 _This is weird._ Crowley looked him over for a long moment, taking in the woolen slacks and the velvet waistcoat, the pressed blue shirt, the tartan pattern on his tie, and the delicate gold thread of a pocketwatch. He liked it.

“It’s not for free,” he replied, giving Bowtie a crooked smile, “Give me your number.”

“My number?” His accent was posh.

“Yeah, you know,” Crowley made a gesture with one hand, “For calls.”

“Ah,” Bowtie replied uncertainly, “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have a _phone number?_ ”

Bowtie stiffened, lips tightening in a distracting sort of way. “I don’t need one.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “That is the worst excuse I’ve ever heard,” he figured out what this was – he was being rejected, and not even in a convincing way, “If you don’t want to give me your number, just say so.” He wasn’t annoyed. This wasn’t annoying.

Bowtie didn’t say anything.

Crowley glanced down at the signet ring, rolling it between two fingers, and settled on his consolation prize. He held up the ring and said, “I’m keeping this, then. I saw it first.” He thought about putting it on, just to rub in the fact that he wasn't petty.

“Please,” Bowtie stepped closer to him, hands fluttering at his sides, “Could we make another arrangement?” There was a thread of supplication in his voice, casting about for a solution, “You could give me your number… and the ring.”

Crowley gave Bowtie a considering look, softening at the other man’s genuine distress. “Doesn’t sound like _I’m_ getting anything out of this,” he muttered. Giving up his number and the ring, what was he left with? “I’m Crowley. What’s your name?”

Bowtie ignored his question. “Crawley?” he repeated the name, but the pronunciation was off.

“Crowley.”

Antique Girl chose that moment to walk back into the room, and when she asked who was planning to pay for the ring, Bowtie raised his hand. Crowley set it down on the counter, feeling around in his pockets for his receipt from lunch. He turned it over and reached for Antique Girl’s pen, and he scribbled his number down. He nudged the slip of paper under the ring. Bowtie exchanged a handful of notes with the girl, then picked up Crowley’s receipt and the ring, staring down at the numbers before shooting the medium a tentative look.

Crowley offered his most seductive smile, which wasn’t a smile at all. It was more of a smirk with a calculated head tilt that worked really well for him – usually. “Give me a call.” Then, so as not to ruin the effect, he turned and sauntered out of the shop. It didn’t occur to him until he was back at the Bentley that he never did get Bowtie’s name. It was the worst arrangement he’d ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The AU concept for this world - i.e. Reapers as humans who have been punished for crimes they committed in life - comes from various sources (ex. the manga Black Butler, TV show Goblin) but there’s no need to be familiar with those mythologies because this project stands on its own. :D But if it's a concept you're interested in, I highly recommend both.


	2. One Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale debates on whether or not to call Crowley. Crowley waits for the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cw for non-graphic references to past domestic abuse and a fatal car accident. This is related to Aziraphale's assignment as a reaper (the scene occurs just after he leaves the bookshop).

“I’m surprised he couldn’t sense you.”

Aziraphale turned towards the shop's proprietor, his expression one of polite interest. “Oh?”

“He’s sensitive,” Anathema Device was a witch who, by virtue of her second sight, recognized Aziraphale for what he was. “His aura… it’s unusual.”

The witch deliberated in her choice of words, settling on a suitably non-descriptive term with a smile. Aziraphale was tempted to inquire after her meaning, but to do would be an oblique admission of interest in a human being. Such fraternization was prohibited among his kind, per the clauses on conflicts of interest. He considered Anathema Device an acquaintance, and their familiarity pushed the boundaries as it was.

“Ah.” Aziraphale picked up the ring and folded the slip of paper in half. “Thank you for your time.”

Anathema blinked at him, but she recovered from her surprise and wished him well. Aziraphale inclined his head with a small smile and left. He returned to the bookshop and sat down in the backroom.

 _I cried upon meeting that man._ _What does it mean?_

Aziraphale could not remember. He did not feel anything – not grief, nor recognition – but his body responded as if it did. His chest grew tight, his heart stuttered into beating, his palms sweated, his eyes burned, and his stomach turned at the prospect of losing the ring. Having any sort of corporeal response was strange because he was not alive. His body did not respond to stimuli unless he willed it: he did not experience hunger or thirst, pain or arousal, he did not even need to breathe. And yet it had reacted to Crowley as if it _was_ a proper body.

Unfolding the slip of paper, Aziraphale smoothed his fingers over the writing. He memorized the numbers but could not divine an answer. The ring was similarly unaffected by the weight of the reaper’s gaze. It told him nothing.

_If you aren’t going to help me, then why did I pick you up?_

The ring did not answer. It was not sentient. He held it between two fingers and felt nothing but the cool weight of metal against his skin. There was no magic imbued in this artefact. Aziraphale pressed it to the tip of his ring finger only to have his hand begin to shake, giving him second thoughts. Perhaps he shouldn’t wear it.

_Why would I buy something I do not intend to wear?_

Aziraphale could not say how long he sat at his desk, revisiting the events of the afternoon only to be left with a frustrating lack of clarity. Hours passed in silence. Eventually, Aziraphale was called to fulfill his assignment for the evening, and so he locked the silver ring and the slip of paper away in the bottom drawer of his desk. He retrieved his book and his coat, and he locked the front door on his way out.

Standing on the threshold of the bookshop, the reaper drew a gold ring from his pocket and slipped it onto his right hand. It suppressed the sounds of the living to a low hum and it allowed Aziraphale to move through the crowd effortlessly, an invisible and disembodied thing that humans neither perceived nor brushed against. He arrived on Carnaby Street, illuminated by the blue lights of an emergency vehicle. Aziraphale passed through the police barricade and approached the accident, where a van had crashed into two parked cars. Emergency services removed both the driver and the passenger from the crushed cab of the vehicle. The latter died on impact, her spirit hovering over the dead body with a stricken expression, and Aziraphale touched her shoulder. The spirit was startled, turning around to face him, and he smiled at her.

Aziraphale saw her life unfold like a book before his eyes, and this told him where she needed to go. He beckoned her to his side, and she followed him over to the technicians, attempting to staunch the bleeding of the driver’s neck on a stretcher.

“He killed me,” she said. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied.

“I was afraid he would, but not like this.”

“I know.”

The driver died from blood loss en route to the hospital, and his spirit returned to the road where he died. Aziraphale greeted the man by name and in doing so, diverted his attention from the blood spattered on the road. “You have an appointment,” he informed them, “Please follow me.”

He escorted the spirits to back room of his bookshop, and he directed them to sit down on the sofa behind his desk. The woman, Olivia, sat as far away from her husband as she could. Aziraphale prepared tea, and in his absence, the two began to argue. The man, John, cursed at his wife for distracting him on the road and she shouted that he’d killed her, that he should not have been drinking. He grew belligerent in response.

“ ** _Be quiet_**.” Aziraphale knew their names, and he held the power to silence and command them. He did not often exercise it because he did not wish to frighten his charges. But there were some who only responded to force. The husband sank into the sofa, his tongue and lips pressed flat.

Aziraphale poured the wife a cup of tea and held it out to her in a white saucer. “This is for you, my dear.”

She looked down at the drink in her lap. “What is it?”

“My own blend of tea,” he replied with a smile, “Drink it, and it will take away your memories.”

Olivia glanced up at him, fingers trembling against the cup, “Even the good ones?”

“It is for the best,” he replied gently, pausing to allow her to reconcile this, “I have seen into your heart, Olivia. I know the burdens you have carried, the life you have led. You have nothing to fear crossing my threshold, but to do so you must let go of this life.”

Olivia picked up the cup of tea in both hands, hesitating. She glanced to her husband who met her gaze with the angry impotence of one who is unused to ceding control. “Will he come with me?” she asked.

“No.” She looked up at Aziraphale, conflicted. “He is on a different path. You will not see him again.”

This seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded with a small smile. She lifted the cup to her lips and drank the tea. Aziraphale gestured to the open door of his backroom. He watched her stand up and cross the threshold, vanishing in a warm wash of filtered white light.

“You may speak.”

“Why did you give her tea and not me?”

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap. “You must remember your sins,” he replied, the warmth leaking out of his eyes until they were as hard and unyielding as stone, “You abused your family. You took advantage of those less powerful than you, in your private life and in your business.” Aziraphale had seen this man’s life and the suffering he inflicted on those around him, the festering hatred and greed that filled his heart. He thought he would never be held accountable for his actions. He thought he would always be the most formidable person in the room.

Now he was coming to terms with the reality that he was not. “You will be sent to the bottom of the pit,” Aziraphale said softly, unmoved by the growing distress in his eyes, “And in this place, you will find things older and more vicious than you trying to claw their way out of the dark. But they cannot escape, and neither can you. You will suffer unspeakable torment, and each passing second, you will remember what you did.”

The weight of those words – and the painful fate awaiting him – settled on the spirit’s shoulders and he swayed forward, pale and fearful. Aziraphale watched him slide off the sofa and onto his knees, listened to him apologize, beg for forgiveness. But it was not compunction that had him groveling on the floor. It was fear. It was nothing Aziraphale had not heard before from men far more sympathetic than this one.

“Such decisions are not mine to make,” he inclined his head towards the ceiling, indicating Heaven above, “She can be tetchy, and it does not seem She wishes to intervene on your behalf.” Aziraphale stood and pulled John to his feet, escorting him to the doorway and sending him through. There was always the possibility of redemption, but it would not be an easy path for a man like that, one who showed no remorse in life.

The particulars were not his area. Aziraphale crossed both names off his list and signed their paperwork, confirming that he had delivered their souls across the threshold. He snapped his fingers and the documents vanished, only to be replaced by an acknowledgment of receipt and a list of names for the next day. Aziraphale had one more appointment before midnight, but until then he was free to do as he liked. He rinsed out Olivia’s cup and retrieved a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape from his cellar. He poured himself a glass of wine and selected a book of poems by Christina Rossetti. He felt a certain affection for those artists and writers he had the privilege to meet. Their voices stayed with him.

 _Come to me in the silence of the night.  
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;  
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright  
As sunlight on a stream_—

Crowley was not what one would call soft or rounded, and he had worn sunglasses. Aziraphale could only speak to Crowley’s smile, the softening of thin lips and the slightest upturn of one corner, the gentle lines around his mouth, the crinkles of his forehead as he raised his eyebrows, remarkably expressive despite the glasses. His hair was autumn, artfully tousled as if by the unfinished brushstrokes of God.

_What is the matter with me?_

Aziraphale sighed, setting the book of poems on the sofa, and stood up. He crossed the room to his desk and the bottom drawer of his desk slid open to reveal the silver ring and the slip of paper where he had left them.

_Don’t touch them._

_I have no intention of touching them. I only wished to see if they were still there._

_I ought to burn them._

It occurred to Aziraphale that he should stop talking to himself. It wouldn’t matter if he burned the slip of paper because he could reproduce the numbers by memory – and the ring? He couldn’t. It would be terribly spiteful of him to have bought that ring only to destroy it, knowing that someone else – _Crowley_ – was interested in it and would likely take better care of it. It would be worn and admired by others, not tucked away in the dark. Aziraphale shut the drawer with a wave of his hand and gave himself a firm talking to. He did not have a phone number and if he did, he would not share it with a human. It was an unmistakable violation of the rules. Reapers were not to intervene in the affairs of the living beyond those forgettable encounters – drinking tea, purchasing books, walking in the park – that allowed them to blend in when not on assignment. 

_“Give me a call.”_

He shouldn't.

* * *

“Why isn’t he calling?”

Crowley slumped in a high-backed chair, with half of his torso and both arms sprawled over the round table used for Madame Tracy’s séances. Propping his head up on one hand, he picked at the embroidered stars in the silky purple tablecloth and glared at his mobile phone which lay in front of him, silent as the grave.

“Is this about your bowtie man?” Her voice floated out of the bedroom where Marjorie Potts – his long-time business partner and friend – was putting the finishing touches on her ensemble.

“Ring,” he muttered to the phone, answering Marjorie’s question with sullen silence, “Ring, you traitor.”

“Crowley, love,” she stepped out of her bedroom dressed in a loose blue robe printed with purple peacock feathers, with pin curls in her hair, “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but he is a man. That is what men do.”

“Not to _me_.” Crowley scowled up at her, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “I have never not been called back when I give a man my number,” because he would never _do something_ unless he was certain it would _work._ And it should have worked on Bowtie who was not even the most attractive man he’d ever met.

“Perhaps you came on too strong,” she suggested, carrying her crystal ball to the table. She set it down in the middle and smoothed out the tablecloth Crowley rumpled, “He sounds shy, repressed, closeted, perhaps?”

“There was nothing closeted about that man.” Marjorie hummed in response, rummaging around in the side table for a tab of hotel matches, which she used to light two sticks of incense. Crowley groaned, rubbing at his face with both hands, “Is it me? Am I getting too old to pull middle-aged men at antique shops? Is this what I’ve been reduced to?” Was it all over at the ripe old age of forty? Was he knocking on Death's door?

_Brrp._

Marjorie raised a brow at the sound of his Grindr notification. “There’s your answer,” she said mildly, turning on her knock-off Tiffany lamp, “It’s his loss, love. You should forget about him. Find another outlet for your… stress? I could recommend someone.”

“No.” Crowley did not need a dominatrix. Or a string of dick pics from Grindr. He couldn’t forget about Bowtie, because Bowtie had inexplicably forgotten about _him_. And the ring… Crowley let out another frustrated string of consonants and contemplated drowning his sorrows in alcohol.

Marjorie joined him at the table, and he felt the pressure of her acrylic nails against his shoulder. “I hate to interrupt, dear,” she said gently, “But Madame Tracy will be drawing back the veil in ten minutes for Priscilla’s family. You’re more than welcome to stay…”

Crowley grumbled wordlessly and dragged himself to his feet, pocketing his mobile. Marjorie offered to let him take a kip in her bedroom, but he declined, citing his “allergy” to the cloying scent of sage and sandalwood.

He stuck around long enough to confirm a few key details he’d gotten from the ghost that would sell the seance: the childhood dog was named Molly, favorite food was strawberries, annual family vacation was to the coast where their mother once lost an earring, and no, Priscilla did not forgive her sister for drawing in permanent marker on her Madeline dollhouse. The ghost wanted Crowley to retrieve a charm bracelet that her former flatmate had stolen from her, but he was sure Madame Tracy could spin that in a sentimental way for the grieving family members. In the meantime, he had a flat to break into on this fine Saturday afternoon, and then he was going to sell the bracelet once the ghost moved on. Priscilla didn’t care who it went to, as long as it didn’t go to “that slag” because “she’s literally the worst.” So, Crowley was in the clear.

He endured a kiss on the cheek from Marjorie before leaving the flat, taking the stairs two at a time and side-stepping Priscilla’s relatives on his way out. Her flat was in West London, on the other side of Hyde Park, and Crowley was coming from Tottenham. He decided to drive through Soho and, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel to the sound of Freddie Mercury, he circled the block around the antique shop twice.

“This is path-ah! Fuck!” Crowley glimpsed white curls and hit the brakes, shifting the Bentley to a stop in the middle of the street. He unrolled the window and called out, “Hey! Bowtie!” The Fiat behind him laid on the horn and Crowley gave the old man the finger. The scene he caused drew Bowtie’s attention, and Crowley watched him step around the gawking passersby, until he stood on the curb in his pressed tan trousers.

“Hello,” Bowtie greeted him with stilted politesse, standing in front of the antique shop.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Crowley stabbed one finger at the sign, _Nice and Accurate Antiques_ , “Is this just a coincidence?" Both of them standing - well, one standing and one sitting in his car - in front of the place where they met for the first time. It was all he could think about.

Bowtie shook his head, parted his lips but didn’t say anything. He pursed them instead, brow furrowed .

The old man in the Fiat hit his horn again. Crowley ignored him. “Why didn’t you call?” he demanded, catching himself short of admitting to the whole of Soho that he’d waited around for a week straight. There was not much salvaging of the ego left. People were staring at him. “Well?”

“I will,” Bowtie insisted with a profound earnestness, “I will do it right now.” Then he turned on his heel and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?!” Crowley shouted after him, half hanging out of the Bentley’s window as Bowtie faltered, then hesitated, “Trying to find a kiosk?” No one used public phones anymore, he wouldn't know where to look, “You’re lying, aren’t you? Just put me out of my misery!”

“I am not lying,” Bowtie replied in the same even tone of voice, “I have a telephone at home. I will call you soon.”

“That's so stupid,” Crowley was exasperated, “We are running into each other right now!”

“Ah,” Bowtie replied with a nod, “Yes. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He lifted a hand to give the medium a small wave.

Crowley wanted to bash his head against the steering wheel, or possibly run over the bastard with the Fiat who was now yelling at him through his windshield, threatening to call the police. “How about you get a cup of coffee with me now instead of calling me later?” Crowley managed not to yell in Bowtie’s face, and he tried to smile. It came out crooked and strained, “I’m here and I’ve got nothing better to do.” Bollocks. Too honest.

Bowtie seemed to be considering it, and much to Crowley's surprise (if not everyone in the vicinity, considering he sounded at least sixty-two percent deranged), he nodded in tentative agreement and crossed the street. Crowley leaned over, swearing to himself, and cleared off the passenger’s seat before Bowtie opened the door and joined him. He sat primly inside the Bentley, hands in his lap and gaze carefully fixed on the window. Crowley drove them to the nearest café, and neither of them said a word. It was the most uncomfortable car ride of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It goes without saying that you shouldn't get into a strange man's car if he's yelling at you from the street... unless you, too, are an occult/ethereal being with relatively little to fear from humans. :) Thank you so much for reading and for your wonderful feedback. It's been so encouraging as I revise these chapters (hence this one coming up a little earlier than expected!).


	3. Telephone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meet for coffee.

Aziraphale wrapped his hands around the warm teacup and breathed in the woody scent of rooibos and citrus. Lifting the mug to his lips, he savored the full-bodied taste of Madagascar vanilla and orange blossom honey with a hum of delectation. In the absence of physical contact with others, Aziraphale indulged in the distinctive textures of clothing, of bookshops, of food and drink. All gustatory experiences were accompanied by tactile stimulation, of the lips, the tongue, the palate, the throat, which brought the reaper a great deal of comfort and pleasure.

Finishing his tea, he set the cup down on a saucer and glanced up to find Crowley watching him, his forearms braced on the table. Aziraphale reflected on the exchange with the barista, the drinking of tea, and he believed he passed as human, but he was uncertain of how to proceed. He shouldn’t be having tea with a human. In the moment, caught lingering outside of the witch’s shop by the very person he was hoping to see, he reasoned that accepting the invitation was a less prolonged social engagement than the promised telephone call.

“So…” Crowley drawled, “Are we gonna sit here in silence until the sun goes down?”

Aziraphale turned to the window, tilting his head to the side. “It is overcast.”

Crowley made a sound that the reaper couldn’t interpret. “You’ve been drinking that tea for half an hour!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale consulted his pocket watch and found that Crowley was correct. _Thirty-two minutes_.

“You’re not gonna ask how I’ve been? You don’t want to talk to me?”

“I do want to talk to you,” Aziraphale protested. He had forgotten that socialization was part of this ritual. He could see in the tightness of his mouth and the tilt of his sunglasses that Crowley was frustrated, so he attempted to correct his mistake, “Hello. How have you been?”

Crowley leaned back in his chair, slouching behind the table with his long legs stretched out to bracket Aziraphale's own, “I’ve been great. How have you been? Have you been taking care of my ring? Do you still not have a phone number?”

“Yes, I have been taking care of it,” Aziraphale assured Crowley, eager to compensate for neglecting the first question. “I still do not have a phone number.” _How have you been?_ No one had ever asked him this. His state of being did not fluctuate because he was not alive, and he preferred not to lie, so he decided not to answer.

“You’ve forgotten my name, haven’t you?”

“No, it’s Crawley.” Aziraphale did not forget names (although he did occasionally mispronounce them). He was relieved that the human did not press him on the topic of his well-being.

“It’s _Crowley_. No ‘a’. Stop saying it with an ‘a’.”

“Cr _o_ wley,” the reaper corrected himself, feeling contrite, “Please forgive me.”

Crowley sighed in response, his mouth softening. “You are the strangest man I’ve ever met,” he said, but his tone did not seem disparaging. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if the statement required a response. “Is that your thing?”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” Crowley threw back his head and laughed. From the long line of Crowley’s throat to the way he shook his head, it was very nice to watch. The laughter faded but the human’s mouth was still turned up in a smirk. He arched his eyebrows. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” Aziraphale admitted with a small smile, “You have a wonderful laugh.”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “I still don’t know your name, Bowtie. What is it?”

No one had ever asked him _this_ either. Those who knew what he was called him ‘Reaper’ or ‘Death’ – although he objected to the latter as it was not factually correct.

“Well?”

Nudging his empty teacup away from the edge of the table, Aziraphale sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you that,” he said in quiet resignation, bobbing his head in apology, “Excuse me.” He stood up and walked out of the café.

To his surprise, Crowley followed him outside. And before he could orient himself to decide which way to walk, the human stepped in front of him. “It’s not like I asked about your salary!" Crowley threw up his hands, "Why would you get up and leave over a name?”

“I’m sorry…” Aziraphale managed, too flustered to think of a plausible answer. He was further distressed by the prospect of having to invent a ‘salary’. How could he possibly hold a conversation with a human? What was he thinking? He should not have done this.

“Is it because I creeped you out? I’m not a stalker-” Crowley shifted from one foot to the other, “I _was_ driving around your neighborhood which… yeah, I can see how that might look… but… ngk… what I mean is, if you aren’t interested, say the word and I will leave you alone. No guilt tripping, no lurking in the shadows, and I don’t have your number so I can’t leave you heavy breathing voicemails.” Crowley pushed his hands into the narrow pockets of his trousers, and when Aziraphale did not respond, he let out a sharp exhale. “Right. Bad joke. Well. I’m sorry.”

“I am not ‘creeped out,’” Aziraphale replied, searching for an adequate explanation for his behavior – and feeling rather charmed by the human’s concern for him, “Names are… a sensitive topic for me.”

“Okay.” Crowley tilted his head. “So… that’s it then? You're leaving?"

“You said we should get a cup of coffee,” which he understood as a stand-in term for any beverage, including tea, “We both finished.”

“Are you serious?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I will call you soon,” he promised.

“I won’t hold my breath.”

The reaper thought that was a sound choice for a human to make. He excused himself with a soft good-bye and left. Crowley did not follow him. Aziraphale returned to the bookshop, where he went through his curated inventory and rediscovered a black rotary telephone he had purchased in 1955. He spent three days attempting to operate the machine with relatively little success, and on the third day he brought it to Anathema Device.

Standing in front of the register where he and Crowley first met, Aziraphale rested his hands on the smooth plastic curve of the handset. The witch emerged from the backroom of the shop and gave the reaper a considering look behind her thick-rimmed glasses, but she did not seem surprised to see him.

“I still don’t have a copy of Ignatius Sibylla,” she informed him, “But I’ve got a promising lead on it.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale was interested in curating a collection of prophetic works, a hobby he had undertaken five hundred years ago. This interest formed the foundation of his relationship with Anathema Device.

“You’re not here for the books, though.” It was not a question.

“No,” he agreed, his hands settling at his sides as she joined him at the counter, “I was hoping you could instruct me in how to use this telephone.” She fixed him with an unreadable look, and Aziraphale added quickly, “I am willing to compensate you for the labor.”

This seemed to amuse her. “I’m assuming you're also hoping to get a phone number? To call someone in particular?”

Aziraphale stiffened. “Perhaps.”

“No need to get spooky,” she replied mildly, “Let's start with the basics. Do you pay any utility bills? Water, electricity?”

“No.” Aziraphale had a firm grasp of such things and so compelled the lights to turn on or off, the water to run, the stove to heat, and so on, but that same knowledge did not extend to the telephone. 

“No internet?”

“No.”

“Well, if you want to do this the human way,” Aziraphale nodded in agreement, warming up to the witch, “You need to find your phone jack,” Anathema picked up the end of the slender cord attached to the telephone, “That’s what this attaches to. You have to make sure the phone jack is hooked up to a box around your property, and then you have to pay for landline service with a phone company. To do that, you need some form of identification, at least, and probably a bank statement, or a credit card. You’ll have monthly bills.”

“I see.” Aziraphale was disheartened by the thought of having to acquire such documentation. Attempting to legitimize his existence in the human world would draw the ire of his superiors, and while he was capable of compelling humans, it was difficult to sustain over time – monthly? – and it sounded as if many people might be involved. The possibility of keeping his promise to Crowley slipped further away with each word.

Anathema paused, dropping the telephone cord. “Do you want my advice?”

“On the subject at hand, certainly.”

“I think you should forget about this dinosaur,” she tapped the dialer of the device, “And get a smartphone. He’ll probably want to text you, he seems like a texter,” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what she was referring to, but he suspected the ‘he’ in question was Crowley, “And nobody uses rotary phones anymore.”

Aziraphale took this under consideration. “Does a ‘smart phone’ require a bank statement?”

“Yes, unless you buy a burner,” Anathema replied, “But we might as well get you an actual phone.”

“We?”

“I have a proposition for you, Reaper,” she declared, holding his gaze with surety, “I’ll put you on my Friends and Family network, and I’ll buy the phone, so you don’t have to do the paperwork. You pay me, I pay the phone company.”

Aziraphale frowned. “We are not friends,” nor did he consider himself a part of her ‘network’. It would be fairly explicit fraternizing, “Why would you do this for me?”

“Because I’m supposed to,” Anathema replied, wrinkling her nose, “I think. Some prophecies are clearer than others, but I feel good about this one. And besides, I’m not doing it for free. You _are_ paying me for it.”

Aziraphale would have liked to revisit the issue of the prophecy, but the more pressing point of clarity was the payment. He was unsure of what she expected from him. “How would I be paying you?”

Anathema crossed her arms. “British pounds.”

He was surprised – and a little suspicious. “There is nothing else you would ask of me?”

The witch hummed in acknowledgment. “I know the difference between a _jinni_ and a reaper,” she replied, “What do people usually ask you for? More time? Immortality? Resurrection?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Sometimes they ask me to intervene on their behalf.”

“I’m sure that goes over well.”

“It does not.” God had never spoken to him directly, nor was he consulted in the passing of Her judgment. He guided souls across the threshold, but he had no say in where they ended up. That was Her decision.

“Right,” Anathema smiled, “Look, I’m not interested in messing with the natural order. There are no strings, I promise. You just have to pay your invoices- your bills, for using the phone. What do you say?”

Aziraphale agreed to the terms.

* * *

Crowley hated waiting.

He’d been waiting his entire life – he’d felt this heavy absence for as long as he could remember, a nameless _something_ hovering just out of frame, on the edge of his consciousness. He always assumed it was an echo of ghosts he saw, of being surrounded by the bottomless yearning of the dead. It had to take a toll, right?

Another week without a phone call.

At first, he thought Bowtie was playing hard to get – non-committal, inaccessible, mysterious in a vaguely awkward way, all strategies that Crowley had used before to great effect – but now he could admit to himself that no one was manipulating him into obsessing about tartan and white buttons. He was projecting. He was working himself up over nothing. The depressing reality – which Crowley had to accept - was that Bowtie didn’t think of him. He wasn’t interested.

Crowley wrestled the pathetic desire to drive through Soho into submission – because he could take a hint, and he promised Bowtie he wasn’t a stalker. For that to be true, he had to stop… lurking around his neighborhood _like a stalker._ The only reason Bowtie said he’d call was because Crowley pressed him into it, and he was too polite (or too apprehensive of what a strange man in a café might be capable of if rejected) to say so outright. Marjorie was right. He came on too strong, or too desperate, and he hated himself for it. Why was he fixating on this man?

Bracing his jaw against the knuckles of his left hand, Crowley flicked between two glossy mock-ups for one of his advertising firm's biggest clients, McCoy’s Crisps. One was a pub scene with a dartboard, the other was a charcoal grill, both of them tagged with the bolded tagline, ‘man crisps.’ Crowley couldn’t decide which one was worse – _be a real man, eat McCoy’s_ \- so he leaned back in his chair and yelled for the new intern, Newt, who was fumbling with the copier. The machine blared a warning sound, paper trays rattling, spluttering. Newt shot him a frantic look.

“Leave it,” Crowley called to him, curling his fingers to summon the intern into his office. Newt had only been with the program for three days – and in that time, two computers, a projector, a xerox machine had malfunctioned. The reason for this was standing behind the intern’s hunched shoulders. By his clothes and his hat, he looked to be four hundred years old. The ghost ignored Crowley, fixated on protecting his descendant by continuously disrupting technological devices in Newt’s vicinity. He cursed at them as being ‘the devil’s work’. Crowley thought about telling Newt that he was being haunted by a seventeenth-century zealot, but he was enjoying the chaos left in his wake. He needed the distraction.

He’d do something about it soon-ish. He didn’t want Newt to get fired.

“Did you come up with these?” He held the two mock-ups. Newt shook his head and pushed his glasses further up on his nose. "It was Chad, wasn’t it?” Chad was the business student from UCLA who fancied himself the next Don Draper. Crowley abhorred him. 

“Er, yes. He said we should think about the brand’s trajectory over the past ten years-”

“Don’t touch that,” Crowley snapped at the ghost, who was hovering dangerously close to his paper shredder. Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer turned to glare at him, as if sizing up an adversary. “I’ll send you straight to Hell, Pulsifer.”

Newt blanched. “I-I w-wasn’t touching anything.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Crowley replied dismissively, as the ghost flickered out of sight. “Look, Newt, you seem like a… you’re alright,” not Chad, “So I’m gonna put you in charge of the McCoy’s project.”

Newt’s mouth gaped open like a fish. “Wha- really?”

Crowley nodded, punctuating his words by balling up both advertisements. He was good at tempting people to buy useless crap they didn’t need, and he wasn’t stupid enough to cut his potential consumer base by using gendered marketing in the year 2020. “Your first task as project leader is to chuck this shite in the bin where it belongs,” he knocked the balls of paper across the desk, watching Newt fumble forward to catch them before they rolled off, “Chad’s in time out. The rest of you come up with something that is the _opposite_ of this. Are we clear?”

“Uh… y-yes. Yes sir.”

“It’s just Crowley,” he corrected the intern distractedly. His mobile went off, vibrating next to his devil’s ivy. He didn’t recognize the number, and he hated the way his heart lurched into his throat. _It’s probably a bloody telemarketer._ Crowley still answered it. “Who is this?”

There was a soft, muffled sound on the other end of the call- _“Hello, Crowley. This is… er...”_

The sound of that voice made him grin, and he collapsed into his chair. “Bowtie,” he greeted in a slow drawl, “So you do know how to call people,” he slid one hand over the back of his head and noticed Newt still standing in his office. “I thought you might have broken your fingers.” Crowley scowled at the intern and made a sharp gesture, mouthing the words _GET OUT_ for emphasis. Newt took the hint and darted out of the room.

 _“Oh, um, yes_ , _I do,_ ” Bowtie replied, _“I didn’t break my fingers. Thank you for your concern.”_

Crowley rolled his eyes, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “You kept my number.”

 _“Yes, it’s here safe and sound._ ”

“I was waiting for your call,” he blurted out.

 _“Oh.”_ A beat of silence passed.

“Oh?” Crowley repeated, kicking away from the desk with one foot, “You don’t have anything else to say?”

_“Such as?”_

“Such as, I don’t know,” he retorted, “Are you free tonight? Want to have dinner? Something like that.”

There was another pause. _“Are you free tonight?_ ”

“Yes.”

_“Do you want to have dinner?”_

“Yes.”

_“Ah... good.”_

Crowley grinned into the phone. “Is it?” Good, he said, but it wasn't even his idea to go out for dinner. Crowley had to ask himself out. If he had any pride, he'd say 'no' or make him beg for it. Instead he angled for instant gratification, “Have you been thinking about me?”

 _“Yes._ ”

“Good.” He dropped his free hand to his chest, picking at nonexistent lint on his black shirt and wondering whether he should go home and change, “Are you gonna give me your name, so I can save your number?”

A pause, the soft sound of an intake of breath. _“My name is Aziraphale_.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Aziraphale,” he said slowly, “That’s your first name?”

_“Yes.”_

“No wonder you didn’t want to tell me.” There was silence on the other end of the line, and Crowley wondered if he’d offended Bowtie by making a crack about his name. “It’s interesting. What does it mean?”

_“My name?”_

“Yeah.”

_“Theologically, it refers to a guardian.”_

“Like an angel?”

Aziraphale was silent for so long that Crowley thought the call dropped. He pulled the phone away from his ear to check- _“I am not an angel.”_

“Do you know what Crowley means?” He tried to change the subject, remembering what Aziraphale had said about it being a ‘sensitive issue’. Crowley was afraid of scaring him off again by bringing up religion.

_“I do.”_

“Really?”

_“Yes.”_

“Go on then. Impress me.”

 _“Crowley is derived from the Gaelic name_ , _O_ _Cruadhlaoich, which means descendant of the warrior.”_

“Very good,” he was slightly impressed – moreso at the fact that it was the most Aziraphale had ever said to him in one breath, reminding Crowley of how much he liked his voice, “Do you speak Gaelic?”

_“I read it. Do you?”_

“Not much,” he laughed, “Not a warrior either. Disappointment all around.”

_“I don’t think that’s true.”_

Crowley shifted to draw his legs up and drape them over the arm of the chair, curling his body into a ‘C’ shape. “Let’s talk about dinner,” he suggested, “I get off work at six. Should I pick you up in Soho?”

_“If it isn’t an inconvenience, that would be nice.”_

“S’no trouble,” Crowley replied, “Let’s meet in front of the antique shop. Six-thirty?”

_“Yes.”_

“I’ll see you then.”

_“I look forward to it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you have already remarked on this in your wonderful comments :) which I greatly appreciate, but I did want to explain that Reaper!Aziraphale (as you've probably noted) doesn't have the same familiarity with social customs as Angel!Aziraphale. He lives parallel to the human world, but is not permitted to be a part of it. Because the bulk of his interactions with people occur after they've died, he is unsure how to interact with Crowley. I hope this rationale for his characterization makes sense in the context of this world. Thank you so much for reading and for your hits, kudos, and comments!


	4. Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have dinner and attend a play. A gift is given.

“I am forty-three years old.”

Aziraphale paced in front of the antique shop, repeating the words to himself until they sounded natural. He had acquired from the witch not only a ‘smart phone’ but suggestions for what to prepare for an extended conversation with Crowley. Much of it involved lying which disconcerted him but he could see no alternative, if he insisted on associating with a human. The intricacies of a mortal life were not lost on the reaper after centuries of observation, but he was anxious about the breadth and depth of knowledge he might be expected to demonstrate over dinner with regards to: age, birthdate, family history, sexual history, relationship status, profession, salary, education, political affiliation, religion, and miscellaneous values.

He was practicing. “I am a Libra.” Anathema Device assured him that knowing his astrological sign was very important and when he reminded her that he did not have a birthdate, she informed him that he “felt like a Libra.” Deciding on the birthdate itself required the witch to consult numerology and a starchart.

“I own-” Aziraphale broke off mid-sentence, glancing up to find Crowley stopped in the middle of the street in his black automobile. The reaper closed his eyes against a momentary swell of embarrassment, raising his hand in greeting. Crowley raised an eyebrow above his sunglasses and returned the wave. Aziraphale gave a small, nervous smile and crossed the street. He reached the automobile as Crowley leaned over to push open the door.

“Hullo, Aziraphale.”

“Hello, Crowley.” He sat down in the passenger’s seat and pulled the door shut.

This was the extent of the conversation, as Aziraphale gripped the door handle and Crowley sped through the streets of Soho, humming wordlessly to the _bebop_ on the radio. Fifteen minutes later, the automobile rounded the curb and drove into the parking lot of a restaurant. Aziraphale recognized the exterior and name. There were five Turkish restaurants of good quality in Soho and he had patronized each of them. Crowley asked him whether he liked Turkish food, and Aziraphale answered favorably. Together they walked into the restaurant and were seated under the reservation of ‘Anthony Crowley.’

“Anthony?”

 _Anthony_. Derived from the Latin Antonii (Antonius, Antonia), a Roman family name meaning ‘of inestimable worth.’ _Of inestimable worth_ (Anthony) _, descendent of the warrior_ (Crowley) _. Descendant of the warrior of inestimable worth_. Aziraphale wondered who that ancestor might have been, but he curbed his curiosity with a sharp internal reprimand. He also remembered that in the seventeenth century, Antony was (incorrectly) attributed to the Greek word ‘anthos’, or flower, resulting in an orthographical shift that saw Antony become Anthony. The ‘h’ remained in Anglicized forms of the name even after the purported Greek connection was discredited.

Crowley glanced to him, pulling out his chair with a gesture. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” Aziraphale smiled at him and sat down, careful to lean forward so as not to touch the human until he moved into the reaper’s line of sight once more. “Thank you.” Aziraphale folded his napkin in his lap and watched Crowley toss his black leather jacket over the rounded back of the upholstered chair before he sat down.

“So…” Crowley looked at him for a long moment.

Aziraphale’s fingers tightened on his cloth napkin and he blurted out, “I am forty-three years old, my birthdate is September 28 and I am a Libra. I am non-denominational and single,” he paused, unsure of how to interpret Crowley’s expression and wondering if he’d incidentally given away his untruths, “I am happy to see you again.”

“Right.” Crowley canted his head to the side. “Me too. Happy to see you, I mean.” Aziraphale smiled and Crowley seemed to return it in his way, with a slight upturn of his lips, before he said, “I didn’t peg you for an astrologist.”

“Peg me?”

“Hard to believe you’re single, asking for that on the first date,” Crowley replied, silent laughter in his voice that Aziraphale did not understand. Then the human explained, “I didn’t think you were interested in astrology.” 

“I’m not.” Aziraphale wondered if Anathema Device had not overestimated the importance of ‘star signs,’ considering Crowley’s response to them. He was also distracted by the first remark. “This is a date?”

“If you want it to be.”

“Ah.”

“Do you?” Crowley took a sip of his water, but round black lenses were fixed on the reaper’s face.

Aziraphale took the time to consider the question, before giving a slight nod. “Yes. I think so.”

Crowley almost smiled. “A rousing endorsement.”

Soon after this pronouncement, a waiter approached their table and inquired about drinks. Crowley suggested a bottle of syrah and Aziraphale agreed, consulting his menu to decide on what to order. He had tasted nearly everything on the menu and selected a favorite dish to pair with red wine: a rosemary-crusted lamb tenderloin.

“So,” Crowley remarked as the waiter collected their menus and left the table, “You’re not an astrologer. What do you do?”

Aziraphale expected this question and replied carefully, “I am in the… service industry.” 

“Huh.” Crowley shook his head. “That’s a big industry.”

“It is.”

Crowley glanced away from Aziraphale towards the waiter, who returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses. After he departed again, Crowley said, “I saw you outside a bookshop once: A.Z. Fell and Co, around the corner from where I picked you up,” he held his wineglass between long, tapered fingers, “Is that yours?”

Aziraphale paled. “Er… yes.”

His stricken expression must not have been well-concealed, because Crowley was quick to assure him, leaning into the table, “Relax. No need to run off again. I won’t come by unless you want me to.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale managed weakly, wringing his cloth napkin beneath the table. He could not pretend that leaving hadn’t crossed his mind, and he forced his body to slacken, “The shop is open by appointment only.” 

Crowley gulped down half of his glass. “You must be fussy with your clients.”

“It is a… selective process.” Aziraphale had little control over his assignment. He was not permitted to alter the list of names he received each day, nor the order in which he received them. And he never took a holiday.

“Fussy,” Crowley repeated wryly, “My job’s only criterion is money. I’m in advertising.”

“What does your job entail?” Aziraphale’s hands were folded in his lap, his wineglass untouched to give Crowley his full attention. He wished to savor this evening in its entirety and committed to memory the interplay of the restaurant’s interior and red hair, the gradation of soft, golden light caressing the lines and angles of Crowley's face. 

“It entails convincing people to buy my ad, which will convince _other_ people to buy their product.”

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgment. “How do you convince them?”

“It says right here,” Crowley gestured at his own face, twirling his forefinger in a circle, “Attractive person. Can sell anything. Give me your money.”

“I see.” Crowley was teasing him, and Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders in delight, “Well, I am convinced.”

Crowley grinned at him, a breathtaking flash of straight white teeth, and he reached for his fork as the waiter set down an appetizer of falafel, with two small white plates. Crowley jabbed the fork in Aziraphale’s direction and said, “See? This is better than you ignoring me. We’re having a good time, getting to know each other.” Crowley speared one deep-fried patty and cut it in half on his plate, and Aziraphale did the same.

“You’re right,” the reaper conceded with a reconciliatory nod, “This is better.”

Crowley put down his knife and fork, giving him a considering look. “So, what do you like?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I like you.”

Crowley pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not what I meant. Hobbies, interests, et cetera.”

“I am interested in you.”

Crowley scoffed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Stop telling me things I want to hear.” Aziraphale paused, unsure of whether to continue, and the human quickly filled the silence, “That doesn’t mean stop talking.”

Aziraphale acknowledged the words with a small nod. “I enjoy wine,” he admitted as he picked up his glass, swirling the garnet-toned syrah with a gentle roll of his wrist. Bringing it to his lips, Aziraphale breathed in the scent of red and black fruits, floral violets, and pepper. He preferred its lean, savory flavor to the shiraz, and the burst of flavor that spilled over his tongue in that first delectable swallow tasted of vanilla and baking spice. The wine was aged in oak. It was very good.

“I enjoy watching you enjoy wine,” Crowley murmured from across the table, and Aziraphale’s eyelids fluttered to refocus on the human, whose elbows were on the table, chin in one hand. His falafel remained untouched. “Tell me something else.”

Aziraphale took his time to respond between indulgent sips of syrah, before setting the glass on the table. “I enjoy fine dining at establishments such as this,” he cast a pleased look around the interior of the restaurant and smiled at Crowley, picking up his fork. “I collect books. I walk in the park. Sometimes I attend the theatre.”

“That’s it?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I am rather busy.” He was the only reaper in London who did not spend his ‘off time’ at St. George’s Hospital, training new reapers or conducting performance reviews amongst coworkers under the guise of ‘catching up.’ He disliked the cold sterility of the hospital that so attracted others of his kind and avoided it. He imagined if humans could see what he saw it would be unsettling: at any given moment, any unoccupied seats along the hospital corridors and in the waiting rooms were filled with reapers, dressed in sharp gray suits.

“With your appointment-only antiquarian bookshop?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Crowley seemed amused, smirking around the tines of his fork as he took a bite of the falafel. A pleasant quiet stole over the table as they finished their appetizer, apart from Aziraphale’s sighs of pleasure. Patting the corners of his mouth with his napkin, the reaper nudged the now empty plate to the side. Not long after they agreed on a second bottle of wine, the waiter returned with their entrees: lamb for Aziraphale, and yogurt kebab with chicken shish for Crowley. The conversation flowed easily about the food, the wine, and local restaurants.

“I like theatre,” Crowley remarked, recalling their earlier conversation as he refilled both glasses. Aziraphale gave him a questioning look, “The Globe is putting on _Much Ado About Nothing_ until October.”

“Oh, really?” the reaper brightened, “I am quite fond of Shakespeare.” He had been for centuries.

“He’s not bad,” Crowley agreed with a shrug, “Comedies are good. D’you wanna go?”

The question came out in a slur of words and Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Go where?”

“To see it. _Much Ado_.”

“With you?”

“No, with an aardvark.” Aziraphale frowned – registering the sarcasm and ignoring it because it was rude – at Crowley, who blew out a breath and waved his hand, muttering, “Yes, with me.”

Aziraphale gave him a mildly reproachful look, softening at the prospect of another outing together. “Yes,” he agreed warmly, “I would like that very much.” It had been nearly a decade since he saw a show at the Globe. How splendid.

“Good,” Crowley confirmed with a nod, a small smile curving his lips, “I’ll text you the details.”

Touching the page of a book or the flow of silk, cotton and velvet between his fingers, tasting a fine bottle of wine or the texture of rosemary and seared meat, heightened Aziraphale’s awareness of the corporeal dimension of his form. These sensations connected him to the human world and made his long existence less lonely. Crowley brought him the same pleasure, the simple act of sharing a meal and a conversation with someone else. Crowley was unpredictable and this drew him in, incited his imagination, even as he fumbled through their interactions. His quick wit, his expressive face, the faint smudge of his slender fingertips on the bowl of his wineglass as he carelessly gestured mid-conversation, deepened Aziraphale’s growing infatuation. He thought if he could understand Crowley, he might understand this one thread of God’s ineffable design.

After dinner, Crowley drove him to the bookshop, parking his automobile – which he referred to as _the Bentley_ – on the curb. Aziraphale peered out the window and remembered his last assignment for the evening.

“Thank you, dear boy,” he turned to smile at Crowley, who had taken off his sunglasses to drive. He was very handsome. For a long moment, they stared at one another. Then, Crowley leaned over the center console of the Bentley and Aziraphale, on instinct, jerked back and struck his elbow on the edge of the door handle. “What are you doing?” he demanded, flustered by the unexpected proximity of the human.

Crowley made a guttural sound in his throat, drawing back to fiddle with the radio. “Ngk-” he cleared his throat, and in the faint light of the streetlamp, Aziraphale could see his face flushing. “Nothing.”

Aziraphale was unconvinced, but the warm interior of the Bentley felt too dark and intimate to press for details. He was sitting so close to Crowley and this was dangerous. They had nearly touched. “Alright,” he replied, accepting the lie as he turned away to open the passenger’s side door and step out of the automobile, “Good night.”

Crowley mumbled something inaudible in response. Aziraphale waited on the sidewalk for the Bentley to disappear in a sharp turn around the corner, and then he walked inside the bookshop. His hands shook as he unbuttoned his coat and hung it by the door, moving towards the backroom where he made himself a cup of tea. Crowley had leaned very close to him and Aziraphale had been tempted, briefly, to touch the human. One moment of weakness and he would have seen the entirety of Crowley’s life: from the date of his birth to his death. Aziraphale was painfully aware of the futility of fraternizing with a human being, but this did not mean he wanted to see it.

The reaper was melancholic for the rest of the evening, dwelling on his own hypocrisy and the knowledge that humans were tactile creatures. What could he offer Crowley if he could not touch him? He was not suited for this and should not have encouraged Crowley. He should not have allowed the witch to encourage _him_.

At eleven o’clock, Aziraphale left his shop to retrieve the spirit of a seventy-four-year-old man killed in a mugging on Broadwick Street. His name was Thomas Davies, and he fretted about leaving his dog, Biscuit, alone in his flat with no one to look after him. Aziraphale assured him that his daughter had already been notified, and she would collect the dog within the hour. Thomas sighed, satisfied, and drank his cup of tea at Aziraphale’s behest. The reaper then escorted the elderly man over the threshold, and he disappeared into filtered white light. Its warmth briefly filled the bookshop and then receded, leaving Aziraphale to complete his paperwork by lamp.

At half past three in the morning, Aziraphale received a text message on his mobile. The electronic ping cut through Aziraphale’s distracted endeavor to read the mythical prose poems of Etel Adnan, and his stomach fluttered. He frowned down at his corporation, touching the swell of his belly with the palm of his hand, fingers sinking into soft velvet. He felt short of breath despite having not exerted himself and wondered if this was anticipation. A thought occurred to him, unbidden, that only two people had his phone number. When he picked up the mobile, he saw that it was Crowley. With a firm press of his fingertip against the screen, he smiled as the message formed on the screen.

3:30  
_Much Ado @ 2pm, 730pm_ _fri/sat/sun. Still interested?  
_3:31  
_Np if not_

Aziraphale was puzzled by the shorthand but grasped enough to understand the invitation, his initial excitement flagging under the weight of his own indecision. He couldn’t promise to make plans when he could not predict the schedule of his appointments. Deferring them was simply not an option. This was not something he could explain to Crowley without being questioned about the nature of his work, and Aziraphale buckled under the whisper of doubt in his mind. _This is why you are alone, this is why you cannot form relationships with humans_.

He did not respond to the text messages, or to the telephone call he received the next day.

* * *

One week later, there was a knock on the door.

Frowning, Aziraphale banished his paperwork and moved through the empty shop. The sign was turned to ‘closed’ as it often was, and he opened the door to inform the would-be customer of this fact.

“I need to talk to you.” It was Crowley. His voice was clipped and unhappy.

Closing his mouth, the reaper nodded and stepped back to permit Crowley to enter the shop. He spared a thought to turn on the light with a twitch of his fingers. He closed the door behind Crowley and pressed his fluttering hands to the cool buttons of waistcoat as he turned around. Crowley was looking around at the shop.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do and fell back on courtesy. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No.” Crowley faced him then, mouth flattened into a line. He took one look at Aziraphale’s bewildered expression and it seemed to punch the air out of his chest. “You like me, Aziraphale,” he said, the words half a statement, and half an accusation as he jabbed a finger at the reaper, “ _You_ said so yourself, I’m not imagining it.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I thought the whole point of you getting a phone was so we could talk more, but you flaked out again,” it went unspoken between them that Aziraphale had been avoiding his messages, “Which you are… y’know, entitled to do. I just want to know what I did wrong. Did I go too fast in the car? Is that what it is?”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. He felt an unpleasant squirming in his gut that was nearly intolerable. Crowley had done nothing wrong but Aziraphale was at a loss for words. He couldn’t tell the truth, and in the moment, it seemed easier to simply agree with the reason Crowley had come up with to rationalize Aziraphale’s erratic behavior. ‘Too fast’. He supposed Crowley _did_ drive rather fast, reckless and unconcerned with his own mortality.

Crowley’s shoulders sagged at the acknowledgment, and he gave a sharp nod. “Alright. Good to know.” He moved towards the door and Aziraphale stepped out of his way, backing into a round wooden table. “I’ll leave you to your books.” Crowley walked out of the shop without another word and Aziraphale trailed after him, watching from the threshold of the shop as the Bentley drive away, a painful, shuddering gasp caught in his throat. His eyes burned and he shut the door quickly, retreating into the backroom where he sat at his desk in silence. In the early evening, he remembered what he’d locked in the bottom drawer and pulled it out, the silver signet ring he’d bought from the antique shop and the slip of paper with Crowley’s phone number scrawled onto it.

Aziraphale decided on what to do. It wasn’t what he _ought_ to do but it was what he _wanted_ to do. He reached for his smart phone and tapped on the screen until Crowley’s unanswered messages appeared. Then he responded with painstaking attention to each individual letter on the flat digital keyboard at the bottom of his screen:

13:00  
_Dear Crowley,  
_13:10  
_I am writing to apologise for neglecting your correspondence. Please understand that my silence does not reflect indifference towards you, as  
_13:17  
_that could not be further from the truth. I cannot think of a happier time than the night we had dinner together. I have missed you. I should  
_13:29  
_have told you this when you visited me today. I have made several mistakes since meeting you, but I will endeavor not to repeat them in the future.  
_13:36  
_Please forgive me. I will be at the Globe Theatre on Friday evening and extend this invitation to you in the hopes that you will join me  
_13:41  
_so that I might make amends in person.  
_13:45  
_Regards, Aziraphale_

Crowley did not respond to his messages, and Aziraphale fretted over the quality of his writing. It had been years since he penned a missive to a human being, and he was unfamiliar with the present-day conventions. He hoped that he had adequately expressed his regret for the number of errors he had made thusfar and resolved to entertain an uncharacteristic hopefulness throughout the week. Spending dinner with Crowley had heightened his enjoyment of the atmosphere, the food and drink, in unexpected ways. He was looking forward to how Crowley’s incomparable company might improve his experience of the theatre. It would be nice, he thought, not to be alone.

* * *

On Friday evening, Aziraphale wore his favorite velvet waistcoat with satin lining and pockets, his cotton twill coat, and his tartan bowtie. The theatre, located in Southwark, was a thirty-minute taxi ride from his bookshop, and Aziraphale passed the time revisiting the iterations of _Much Ado About Nothing_ he had seen since 1612. He was fascinated by William Shakespeare’s exploration of death and the afterlife in his tragedies, but he enjoyed the comedies. He found the audience response to comedies endearing – the sound of human laughter, it was lovely.

He hoped to have the opportunity to hear _Crowley_ laugh, and reflected on this as he paid his driver and stepped out of the taxi. Approaching the rounded white exterior of the theatre – which had been well reconstructed from the era of Shakespeare, he thought – Aziraphale’s gaze swept over a redheaded man sprawled on the steps in front of him, dressed in black from his long-sleeved shirt to his snakeskin boots. The reaper swayed to a stop in surprise, watching Crowley’s head tilt to the side as he noticed him, still wearing his sunglasses.

“You received my messages,” Aziraphale greeted him happily, reaching the bottom step as Crowley stood up and shoved his hands in the pockets of his black jacket. “I wasn’t sure…”

“I did,” Crowley shrugged, “Just giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale offered an uncertain smile in response.

Crowley heaved a sigh and the tension streamed out of his body, jaw unclenching and mouth softening. “C’mon, angel,” he entreated, voice growing warmer, “Let’s pick up the tickets.” Aziraphale brightened and followed the human to the ticket office. Filing into the theatre shortly after, they took their seats three rows from the stage. Aziraphale felt a brief stab of longing – for grapes – which he redirected to Crowley.

“I have something for you,” he said, drawing the human’s attention from the milling crowds.

Crowley arched a brow. “You already bought the tickets.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Hold out your hand, please.” He reached into his pocket, drawing out the silver signet ring from the witch’s antique shop. He felt Crowley’s eyes widened though he could not see them through the opaque lenses of his glasses. Aziraphale set the ring in the human’s waiting palm, careful not to brush against the skin, and then withdrew, curling his fingers into his trousers. He blinked back tears and breathed slow and methodically to suppress the discomfort.

“You paid for it,” Crowley’s voice split the tension gathering in his belly, a note of uncertainty in it.

Aziraphale swallowed and raised his chin to meet the human’s gaze, resolved to appear unaffected. “It will look better on you,” he murmured with a small, pained smile. “I’m quite resolute on the matter. You should have it.”

“Well, no arguments there,” Crowley replied lightly, sliding the ring onto his middle finger as if it belonged there. Aziraphale thought it would look best on the fourth finger, but realized it was not his place to say. He turned his gaze to the empty stage and reminded himself that he did not possess a beating heart or a roiling stomach. He was still the master of this corporation, no matter how violently it rebelled against his wishes.

“You drive me crazy.”

Aziraphale glanced away from the stage at the low mutter next to him, frowning at Crowley.

“I was crawling the walls waiting for you to call!” he exclaimed, drawing the attention of an elderly couple seated one row ahead of them, “I really thought I’d fucked this up, and then you spend an hour texting some poncy letter, and now you’re giving me a ring in the middle of the bloody Globe...” Crowley laughed, a strangled high-pitched sound, sunglasses jostling as he rubbed at his eyes beneath the frames, “You are strange.”

Aziraphale deflated as Crowley listed his seemingly incongruous behavior. _Not human enough._ “I know.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Crowley nudged his shoulder, and the reaper imagined he could feel it through the layers of clothing between them, “I’m strange, too. You have _no_ idea.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley intended for him to overhear the last sentence, as low as it was, “But you better start calling me back,” he added with a scowl, “Stop playing hard-to-get. It’s not as cute as you think it is.”

Aziraphale was baffled by whatever it was Crowley thought he was ‘playing’, but he could agree to the condition. It had been unkind and ineffective a measure. He nodded to signal his understanding with a smile, and as the lights dimmed and the audience settled, Aziraphale could not find it in himself to regret the choice he had made: to be here, with Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! So sorry I got behind on these updates! Will get back on my schedule soon :) Thank you for your patience and for all of your kind words! A shout out to GOmens AU server for brainstorming zodiac signs for Aziraphale - I chose Libra for this version of Aziraphale, because his being a reaper lends itself to those specific traits, but I believe canon!Aziraphale could be any number of things (Pisces, Virgo, Gemini...). It's fun to speculate!


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